


Happy Endings

by Fictionista654



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/F, Femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2020-01-04 10:27:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18341807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fictionista654/pseuds/Fictionista654
Summary: Gwen might be a happy-endings massage artist, but she doesn't believe in real Happy Endings--until Morgana Pendragon becomes her client.





	Happy Endings

A silence as she listens in contempt to the other person on the line. When she does speak, her words fall out of her mouth like gun-fire in a satisfying rat-a-tat-tat: “Oui, je compris. Tu veux me tuer. Bah! C’est pas possible! Il est notre client le plus important, et tu as perdu—Je ne peux pas écouter maintenaint.” She hangs up and taps furiously at her phone, every now and then looking up to glare at the Banksy in front of her. She looks more-or-less the same as she always does. Navy-blue suit, sleek black hair, red-varnished nails. Cheekbones that could cut a lover’s hands and sharp green eyes that could stab a man from fifty paces. 

“Morgana,” Gwen says, trying to sound more confident than she is. This client always puts her off her game.

The woman’s affect changes immediately, and, tucking her phone into her purse, she offers her right hand and a brilliant smile. “Guinevere,” she says, her French accent deep and rhythmic. Gwen accepts the handshake. Morgana’s hand is surprisingly cool in her own.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t meet at the downtown office,” Gwen says, holding the door open for Morgana. “Thank you so much for being accomadating.”

“No trouble at all,” Morgana assures her. Gwen actually prefers the office between Central Park West and Columbus, though it’s much less flashy. The view from the window is all pink blossoms and brownstones, and there’s a sort of hominess to an office made out of an old living space.

Gwen watches Morgana as they go up the carpeted stairs to the third floor, but her face gives away nothing. When Gwen unlocks the office, Morgana does give a little nod as she takes in the mahogany desk and varnished wood floor. Gwen suspects that Morgana likes surfaces that give her heels a chance to click. 

“So,” says Gwen, after she’s offered Morgana something to drink (Morgana has her own SmartWater) and a candy from the bowl (declined, with a flash of perfectly white teeth). “I’ll wait out here while you change behind the screen. You can leave your bra and underwear off or on, it’s up to you.” 

“Oh,” says Morgana, dragging her eyes up and down Gwen’s body. “I think I’ll take them off.”

Gwen smiles brightly. “Right! Whatever you’re comfortable with.” Her heart speads up as she listens to the whispery sounds of Morgana changing. It’s almost too soon when Morgana calls out that she’s finished.

Behind the screen, Morgana is already lying face-down on the massage table, her deep black hair pulled up into a bun to reveal the elegant curve of her neck. Gwen swallows hard and turns off the overhead light, leaving on only the dim floor lamp. “What music shall we play today?” she says, opening her music app.

“Euh…perhaps something classical? Mozart. No, Debussy.” 

Gwen loves the way Morgana pronounces Debussy, properly.

“Okay,” says Gwen. “Massage oil?”

“Lavendar,” Morgana says, confidently. The notes of music unspool around them as Gwen slicks her hands with the glossy fluid. 

The first touch is always the hardest. Gwen hovers her hands above Morgana’s shoulders, revealed where the flimsy massage gown parts. She is close enough that she can sense the vibrations of body heat coming off her client.

Because Gwen has to remind herself of that. That Morgana is her client, and nothing more. She takes a steadying breath and presses her hands to Morgana’s back. With her thumbs, she presses at the knots that have beens steadily tightening around Morgana’s shoulder blades for the past week. Morgana groans appreciatively.

“Harder,” she says, her voice a bit muffled by the bed. Gwen tightens her hold and presses down with her upper body, digging her thumbs in under the shoulder blades. Morgana is thin and sharp, and her body does not yield easily. The muscles fight back. 

“You’re especially tense today,” says Gwen. “Do you have any idea why?”

Morgana snorts something in French. “My brother,” she says. “I believe you heard me on the phone with him?”

“Yes,” admits Gwen. “You were speaking fast, though, and I haven’t taken French since university.” 

“Never go into business with family members,” Morgana says darkly. “It never ends well.”

“Oh, God,” Gwen says. “I never would. I hate to think of the terrible things my brother and I would say to each other if we had to work together.”

“It was better in Paris,” Morgana says. “I don’t know what possessed us to open the New York branch together.”

“There must be some advantage, though, surely?” says Gwen, stroking down the length of Morgana’s spine. 

Morgana raises her hand and flutters it. “I don’t want to talk about my brother right now.”

“Got it,” Gwens says with a smile in her voice. “Tell me about Paris, then. What you miss.”

“So much,” Morgana says. Her voice is husky. “Have you ever been?”

Gwen’s fingers stop right at the dimples at the very end of Morgana’s back. She massages there, feeling the muscles slip beneath her fingers like fish. “My family used to spend a weekend a year there, in the sixteenth. We always rented the same flat.” She trails off, remembering the gingerbread-colored stone, the fancy shops, the romance of it all.

“We had a flat in the seventh,” Morgana says. 

“A view of the Eiffel Tower?” says Gwen. Morgana laughs.

“But, of course. Uther Pendragon would settle for no less.” Morgana has mentioned her father before. To Gwen, he sounds terribly tyrannical, but Morgana seems to be fond of him. Or maybe resigned. 

“Our nanny used to bring Arthur and me to the Eiffel Tower on Sundays. She’d get us ice creams.” Morgana’s voice drifts dreamily. “One of my earliest memories is bright white light, and so much green grass, and an action figurine I found beneath the slide. I took home with me and felt so guilty.” 

“Sounds lovely. I mean, not the figurine bit, but the rest of it.”

“It was.” A rustle as Morgana shifts. “Tell me about your childhood, Gwen.”

“Oh, not so interesting.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“I suppose it was a nice one. We lived in a small town. My father was an artist, a sculptor. My childhood smelled like wet clay and felt like warm stone.”

“You did not say you were a poet!” Morgana exclaims. 

Gwen laughs embarrassedly. “I’m not, trust me.”

“What about you, Gwen? Are you a sculptor, too?”

Gwen skims her hands over Morgana’s buttocks. Morgana whimpers, and Gwen almost jumps away. She stills herself and firmly presses down. She fills her hands with soft flesh and squeezes. “Yes,” Gwen whispers, shaping Morgana beneath her. “In a way, I am.” She starts to travel back up Morgana’s back, but Morgana stops her.

“No, don’t stop. Do what you were doing before.”

Gwen bites her lip, and goes back to where she was before.

“I am so lucky I have you to take off the edge,” says Morgana. “I am so tired of riding myself until I collapse. It’s exhausting.”

“Fuck,” Gwen whispers. Not all of her clients give as good as they get. This is why Morgana is her favorite. 

“Further down,” Morgana commands, and Gwen touches the spot where the thigh begins. “You know what I meant.” A hot knot of heat pulses between Gwen’s own legs as she pushes her finger between Morgana’s. She slips them up and strokes what she finds there. Morgana shifts her hips, rolls against Gwen’s fingers. “Keep going. Don’t stop.” This is much less manual labor that Gwen’s usual work, but she’s panting almost as much as Morgana.

“How’s this?” she manages, rubbing the pad of her index finger against Morgana’s clit.

“P-perfect,” Morgana says, her voice almost a growl. Her breathing speeds up with Gwen’s finger, and Gwen has to brace herself against the table with her free hand when her knees suddenly drop. Oh, the things Morgana Pendragon does to Gwen, just by lying there. “I want to touch you.”

“What?” Gwen almost stops rubbing in surprise. “Me? You want me to touch me?”

“Only if you want to.” Morgana sits up and swings herself around, so she’s sitting with her legs dangling off the table. Gwen’s mouth drops open. “Do you?” She sounds a bit worried now, or as worried as Morgana can ever sound. “I’m sorry if I crossed a line—”

“No,” says Gwen. “You didn’t. I’m not going to charge you for this session. I’m not going to charge you ever again. Please just kiss me.”

Morgana’s smile spreads luxuriously over her face. She looks positively joyful. “I’m going to make you feel so good, Guinevere.”

God. Gwen’s never liked her name much; it’s too old-fashioned, too formal. But coming from Morgana’s mouth? Absolute, absolute, absolute heaven. When their lips meet, the kiss is warm and large and devouring. Gwen becomes the kiss, becomes both Morgana and herself, becomes everything at once. Morgana is standing, pushing Gwen against the wall. Morgana is reaching a hand between Gwen’s legs. Morgana is pressing down with the heel of her hand, and Gwen is shuddering with pleasure.

Is there anything as wonderful as kissing this woman? Gwen wonders. How can there be? It’s like sucking on a cherry lollipop, like licking at ice cream. It’s so. Fucking. Good. Morgana trails kisses down Gwen’s neck, between her breasts. Her fingers hook into Gwen’s skirt, and and she kneels as she pulls it down, ending with her face pressed into Gwen’s crotch. The is the scrape of Morgana’s teeth as she pulls down her underwear with her mouth. And then there is a beautiful, wet-hot heat sucking at Gwen. Gwen holds the silky back of Morgana’s head and closes her eyes. It feels like she's falling through her own body, falling up and down at the same time. It feels like flying.

Afterwards, they lie on the floor, curled against each other, face-to-face. Gwen strokes Morgana’s hair, and Morgana strokes Gwen’s cheek. They breathe together. 

“Tonight,” Morgana whispers. “Dinner.”

“Yes,” says Gwen. “Yes, yes, yes.”


End file.
